


I Will be Waiting for You

by leaves_from_the_vine



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hanahaki AU, Hanahaki Disease, Hospitals, I love my miyagi boys, M/M, Matsukawa Issei is an idiot, Mild Language, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Temporary Character Death, Unrequited Love, seijoh third year brainrot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28728774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaves_from_the_vine/pseuds/leaves_from_the_vine
Summary: "'With its intricate fern-like foliage, pink astilbe is a delicate and poetic bloom, often interpreted to mean 'I will be waiting for you."'The Hanamaki that is now hurling bloody astilbes after simply hearing Matsukawa’s laugh understands what it means to wait for someone who won’t ever return your affections, and because he understands this, he endures the needles scaping the back of his throat and the top of his mouth. He endures this because he knows when he exits the bathroom, Matsukawa’s eyes will meet his in exasperation over the whining of Oikawa or the bluntness of Iwaizumi, and the burning in the back of his throat will only become something like a far away memory, or a bad nightmare - something so distant and unfamiliar that it will surprise Hanamaki time and time again as he locks himself in the bathroom and once again hurls pink needles."Or: Hanamaki fell in love with his best friend three years ago, and the universe just adores cruel games and a few unlucky plays on words.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro & Iwaizumi Hajime & Matsukawa Issei & Oikawa Tooru, Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Implied Oikawa Tooru & Sugawara Koushi, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58





	I Will be Waiting for You

**Author's Note:**

> TW//FREQUENT VOMITING & COUGHING UP BLOOD, HOSPITALS, and DEATH (though there is a reason I have tagged neither Major or minor character death... the line of death is squiggly and smudged in this fic).  
>   
> This is has NOT been beta read, so I apologize in advance for my absolute dumbassery
> 
> But yeah! I leave you with this MatsuHana piece that has not left the forefront of my mind for a VERY long time! Please enjoy!  
> -G.L

“I’m home _darling_.” Matsukawa’s melodic drawl grows into a resounding cacophony in the confines of Hanamaki’s skull, rattling around and tossing his thoughts askew. His pale, slender frame is stretched along the sofa and his face remains impassive as he gathers those loose thoughts.

Calmly, Hanamaki grumbles his usual reply, “Good evening, _my dear_.”

Though Hanamaki’s eyes are trained on the white expanse of ceiling above him, he doesn’t miss the slight smirk playing on Matsukawa’s thin lips. He doesn’t miss the sliver of skin that makes a brief cameo as Matsukawa runs his slender fingers through curls of dark hair. Most importantly, Hanamaki does not disregard the way his breath catches nor does he disregard the pressure in his chest, carrying the reminder that he should not pay such attention to fleeting glimpses of skin or the length of his _best friend’s_ fingers. 

Hanamaki suppresses a tickle at the back of his throat, afraid of the repercussions of the cough itching in the depths of his lungs. As a means of distraction, Hanamaki swings his legs off of the sofa and stands up, putting on a groggy pretense as he reaches his arms above his head. Hanamaki grins triumphantly at the small _pop pop pop_ of his spine as well as the roll of Matsukawa’s lidded eyes.

“Where’re IwaOi?” Matsukawa asks, though he doesn’t really seem to care. At this, Hanamaki frowns and clears his throat as another cough threatens to leap out, most likely along with an annoying abundance of vegetation.

“ _You’re_ the one who just came home from school.” Hanamaki playfully jabs a finger into Matsukawa’s hard chest, and the former attempts to ignore the electricity sprouting from the tip of his pointer finger and dancing up his arm as he brushes past his roommate on the way to the kitchen. “Were they not at practice?”

The taller of the two sighs and shakes his head before plopping down on a bar stool across from where Hanamaki stands, back facing Matsukawa, rummaging around in the refrigerator aimlessly. “They were there for the first hour, then bailed. Thought they came home and got it on or something.” Though he’s smiling, Mastukawa betrays no other indication of amusement, instead, his smile quickly conforms into a grimace as he tries to push away the images flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinks.

Luckily, Hanamaki’s chuckle holds enough enlightenment for the both of them, and Matsukawa takes the following moment of comfortable silence to fully admire his best friend, from the way his lighthearted demeanor fills everyone’s hearts to the way he somehow knows the right thing to say in every situation (regardless of how dire it really is). Matsukawa thinks back to the stray flower petals that seemed to have missed the wastebasket, and how out of place they were, considering how the four roommates had never had flower arrangements decorating the apartment’s empty walls, nor had any of them ever received particularly large bouquets. He recalls every instance in which Hanamaki had to excuse himself from practice for “asthma,” and every time his roommate had cleared his throat when he was speaking perfectly fine, or swallowed something down when he wasn’t eating. Yes, Matsukawa had figured out Hanamaki’s predicament a long time ago. So now, as he sits admiring everything that drew Matsukawa to be Hanamaki’s friend in the first place, he wonders which imbecile’s ignorance had planted the seed in his best friend’s lungs. 

__

“I know, I know, Makki. We should have told you.” Hanamaki tries hard not to grit his teeth as his annoyance with his careless friends overwhelms him. He doesn't mind so much that Oikawa and Iwaizumi had gone out and had one too many drinks, no he doesn’t mind that at all. He doesn’t even mind that he wasn’t invited, nor does he mind that Seijoh’s captain and vice captain didn’t think ahead to how they would get home. None of this bothers Hanamaki in the slightest, no. The only thing that irks his royal pinkheaded-ness is that his friends didn’t call the apartment _once_ to assure they were alive.

“You do this every damn time, Oiks. You disappear without a word, everyone is worried sick over you for twelve hours, and then you waltz back into the place like you were just out for breakfast!” Hanamaki throws his hands up in frustration, his glare piercing the two lovebirds while they stammer to come up with an explanation that will appease their angry roommate.

“Y’know, _Makki_ ,” Matsukawa’s lanky frame emerges from the hallway with a lopsided grin playing on his lips, jumping into the conversation seamlessly as he tosses around his angry friend’s nickname, “a lot of people think Iwaizumi is the disciplinarian around here; just wait until word gets round that these two cower like kicked puppies infronta’ you.” A hearty laugh bellows from deep within Matsukawa’s stomach and bounces off the walls like a rabid ping pong ball before settling into Hanamaki’s heart and weighing it down immensely. Once again, Hanamaki’s breath is cut off before his lungs can even finish expanding, and his eyes flutter closed at his attempts to keep everything down until he can properly excuse himself from the scene. 

“Ha ha.” Iwaizumi’s sarcasm is muffled by the sound of Matsukawa’s laugh still bouncing off of the walls of Hanamaki’s skull, and though Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and notices nothing, Oikawa’s knowledgeable gaze burns into the back of Hanamaki’s neck.

_It’s all too much._

“Go.” It’s a whisper as quiet and fleeting as a summer breeze, but it is all Hanamaki needs to take his leave. He has never been more thankful to know someone like Oikawa Tōru as his long legs carry him down the hall and into the closest bathroom.

Not being patient enough to make it to the toilet or the wastebasket, Hanamaki doubles over in front of the sink, and finally lets petal after petal fly from behind his lips. His throat sears with immeasurable pain with every bloody needle he coughs up, making the blush pink of the delicate astilbe look more like faded rosewood. Hanamaki makes a mental note to later laugh at the irony of comparing shades of pink whilst coughing up something akin to shrubbery.

“ _Why did it have to be astilbe?_ ” Hanamaki has always done this. He always curses whatever gods or fates or what-have-you for giving him the fern-like flower with clumped, needle-like petals that scrape the back of his throat and top of his mouth as they spill out of him, instead of a diaphanous blossom, like the rose or chrysanthemum. Naturally, Hanamaki didn’t immediately recognize the byproducts of the _thing_ that took root in his lungs, and took it upon himself to become more familiar with the plant and its meaning. 

As his fingers clutch the edge of the counter and more coughs wrack through him, Hanamaki remembers rereading the same sentence over and over again, and he remembers calling bullshit on that very sentence. “With its intricate fern-like foliage, pink astilbe is a delicate and poetic bloom, often interpreted to mean ‘I will be waiting for you.’” Hanamaki remembers his annoyance vividly, wondering how anyone would put up with heaving these inconvenient flowers day in and day out, all for the purpose of waiting for someone that probably won’t ever return your affections. It was beyond comprehension for younger Hanamaki. 

But older Hanamaki understands. The Hanamaki that is now hurling bloody astilbes after simply hearing Matsukawa’s laugh understands what it means to wait for someone who won’t ever return your affections, and because he understands this, he endures the needles scaping the back of his throat and the top of his mouth. He endures this because he knows when he exits the bathroom, Matsukawa’s eyes will meet Hanamaki’s in exasperation over the whining of Oikawa or the bluntness of Iwaizumi, and the burning in the back of his throat will only become something like a far away memory, or a bad nightmare - something so distant and unfamiliar that it will surprise Hanamaki time and time again as he locks himself in the bathroom and once again hurls pink needles.

For now, however, the searing of Hanamaki’s entire being is so prominent that the boy wishes he would simply drop down dead. For now, Hanamaki is so focused on finding a way to numb the pain and cease the flow of foliage that he doesn’t hear the creak of door hinges or the soft click of a lock when he’s joined by his savior. Hanamaki barely registers the fingers running circles across his back and the coos of support being sung in his ear, but he is thankful for them nonetheless, and Hanamaki makes another mental note, this one is to never ever lose Oikawa Tōru.

“How many?” Hanamaki’s voice is still thin and recovering, and he can’t ignore the tremors that run up and down his spine as a result of his worsening condition, but he asks Oikawa the question anyway, though he has to clarify when Oikawa hums in confusion. “How many people think I should get it?”

Oikawa was the first person Hanamaki told, for as soon as he felt an unfamiliar pain in his chest, he knew he had fallen victim to the disease. As his condition worsened, the hindrance mostly caused by the amount of time Hanamaki spent glued to Matsukawa’s side, Hanamaki had to make one of many ultimate sacrifices as he handed off his volleyball uniform to Yuda and excused himself from the gym on account of “worsening asthma.” Much to Hanamaki’s chagrin, Oikawa strode up to him a mere three days later begging to tell the other starters about Hanamaki’s real motive, barring, of course, Matsukawa Issei. Hanamaki reluctantly agreed, though in hindsight he much rather would have dissented, because the flood of advice and well wishes coming from his teammates was near suffocating, and nothing could quell the guilt bubbling in Hanamaki’s stomach at keeping his closest friend in the dark about it all.

Oikawa sighs and leans back against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall, not much caring about what other people thought his friend should do. “Does it matter?” His discontent is evident as he avoids Hanamaki’s eyes, though the captain eventually gives in and answers his friend’s question. “Most of the team…” he trails off, perhaps wondering if it was the right time to bring this up. Against Oikawa’s better judgment, he adds “And Suga.”

Hanamaki’s body goes stiff at the idea of someone from a different school having the knowledge of his condition. He was already wary enough that Yahaba held this information, but with someone from Karasuno caught on… how long would it take for all of Miyagi to know? All of Japan?

“I’m truly sorry, Makki. We were talking about somebody else on the Karasuno team who had it, and it just slipped out. I know I promised to be careful… God, I just keep disappointing you, don’t I?” Oikawa’s nervous chuckle is drowned out by the waves of questions washing over Hanamaki, though there is only one that is truly important to him.

“ _Had_ it?” Hanamaki’s voice comes out louder than he intends, and he flinches at the sound, as well as at the screams of his throat. He had completely forgotten that you could actually survive this wretched thing. It’s rare, he knows, and not likely in his stars, but he allows himself a fragment of hope.

“Yeah?” Oikawa drags out the vowels as he sweeps his eyes across the room to stare straight into Hanamaki’s, “It isn’t a done deal, Makki.” Oikawa’s tone holds a sense of finality, ensuring that his friend won’t argue back on accounts of ‘he’s just my friend and my roommate’ and ‘he’s into that girl that’s always hanging off his arm anyhow.’

Hanamaki, however, doesn’t feel like arguing this time. There are still a lot of things he doesn’t know about the _thing_ inside him, and, for once, he doesn’t want to discount any possibilities. No, instead of arguing, Hanamaki stands from his seat on the toilet and lets his eyes wander over to the sink, where he and Oikawa were _mostly_ successful in shoving all the astilbe petals down the drain. Hanamaki chuckles with little actual joy and claps his friend on the back, fingers already wrapping around the smooth doorknob, “That plumbing bill’s gonna hurt like a bitch.” And with that, he opens the door dramatically and waltzes out, on a new mission to find an un-spiked water bottle in the crowded fridge.

__

Weekends were the worst, Hanamaki had decided long ago. Well, the best and the worst. On weekends, like this weekend, Hanamaki sees the object of his affections almost every hour of the day, barring distinctively long and awful spells of coughing like the one from the previous night. Hanamaki still can’t determine if he was glad to have these days spent at Matsukawa’s side, or if he is much better off left alone to deal with himself. Hanamaki’s fits are more frequent at his friend’s side, that much was evident from the beginning, but Hanamaki still doesn’t know if shutting himself away and simply settling for longing is the better option.

“Hey, _sweet cheeks_.” Matsukawa’s familiar drawl once again floods Hanamaki’s soul, and he is drawn from his thoughts at the lighthearted term of endearment. 

See, this was a game the pair invented in junior high, and it had originally all been Hanamaki’s idea - which he now considers probably the worst decision of his life. The simplicity of the game is overlooked by the two in favor of the eyerolls and odd looks they would earn from their teammates, the goal simply being to return one sappy nickname or affectionate name with another. If you are unable to return the quip fast enough, you lose. Being simple people, neither Hanamaki nor Matsukawa has ever stopped to consider what losing _really_ meant, they just simply didn’t lose, though the pain buried in Hanamaki’s chest has had him dancing on the line of loss many a time.

Today is no different, and Hanamaki once again suppresses the itch in his lungs by clearing his throat, and he has to take multiple moments before he can respond with a simple “What is it, _pumpkin_?”

The two are relaxed (more or less, in Hanamaki’s case) on the couch in the living room, having seen off Oikawa and Iwaizumi hours ago when the couple departed for some fancy restaurant, or something, Hanamaki wasn’t paying much attention. Hanamaki’s back is pressed flat against the couch cushions and he once again finds himself staring at the seemingly endless expanse of white ceiling, attempting to ignore the fire erupting from his heels and achilles tendons, which just happen to be resting atop Matsukawa’s thigh. The latter is seated upright, and is lost in thought for a long time before he speaks up again, and when he does, Hanamaki can’t help but zero in on the stiffening of Matsukawa’s entire frame.

“Don’t be angry with me.” Matsukawa begins, his entire body facing straight forward, not once indicating any acknowledgement that Hanamaki was there, listening intently. “I should be angry with you, for not telling me. But I feel like you’re the one who’s going to be upset. Please. Don’t be upset.”

To Hanamaki, the entire world stops spinning. ‘ _For not telling me._ ’ Hanamaki’s blood runs cold and he is helpless to the incredulous stare he gives his roommate. Hanamaki doesn’t… can’t… move a muscle; he can only lay there and pray that Matsukawa is still ignorant to the flora sprouting in his lungs.

“How long?” Was the first question Matsukawa could muster, finally turning to look at the other boy on the couch, who was still laying frigid, processing the situation.

Hanamaki knows that by playing the fool, he will only be making things worse. Hanamaki knows he’ll be prolonging the inevitable, and yet the words that ring out in the tense air are still “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Hanamaki knows what Matsukawa is talking about. Matsukawa knows Hanamaki knows, and so the sigh the younger one releases is laced with annoyance and impatience, yet the rest of him remains as calm as he can be, after all, he never expected this to be an easy conversation. Silently willing Hanamaki’s amber eyes to meet his overcast-grey ones, Matsukawa rephrases his question, choosing his words carefully. “How long have you had _the disease_.”

Hanamaki doesn’t register at the time how, like himself, he refused to refer to the condition by its name. Whether it’s because of the humiliating irony shared between the name of the disease and the name of its victim, or because saying it aloud makes it all too real, neither of them could say. 

Nevertheless, Hanamaki answers with little umbrage, his tone settling somewhere between hasty indifference and resigned wariness, “The pain started a little over two years ago,” Hanamaki, actually knowing very little still about the way his body is accommodating the astilbe plant sprouting in his lungs, realizes how alarming it is that he’s been suffering for almost three years instead of the typical three months. As if the universe were playing some sick joke on him, each stage lasted longer than what seemed humanly possible; Hanamaki had half a mind to believe the elongated time frame had everything to do with the meaning of the flowers created deep down inside him - ‘I will be waiting for you.’

“Two _years_.” Matsukawa’s usual gruffness was overcome by a breathy tone as he mulled this fact over, incredulous. 

It didn’t take much coaxing from Matsukawa for Hanamaki to explain everything, omitting the obvious.

“Yes, the pain started two years ago. That’s all the first stage is really, pain. Then, over the break before third year, it got a lot worse,” Hanamaki was careful not to mention that this was probably because he had spent every single summer day with the object of his affections, “that’s when the petals started coming. It was still bearable, but it was odd, because they’re nothing like the usual rose or chrysanthemum or dahlia. I learned it’s called an astilbe, and they’re all different shades of pink, which is funny, y’know, cause of the-” Hanamaki waves his hands around his head, hoping to lift his roommates solemn expression with his lighthearted tangent. All Matsukawa can muster, however, is a timid nod before gesturing for Hanamaki to continue, “Well, anyways...” and continue he does. Hanamaki recalls everything, from his research on the astilbe (bereft of better judgement, he even tells of the plant’s meaning, as well as his speculations that this meaning has something to do with his elongated condition), to quitting volleyball, to having (almost) everyone on the team clued in.

Matsukawa simply sat and took it all in, stomach churning at every small detail that made him feel Hanamaki’s pain as if it were his own. Matsukawa wished he could write everything down, wished he knew how to fix everything, wished he could destroy the person who was slowly killing his best friend. 

Though he had been so careful in recounting the summer days that he had spent by Matsukawa’s side, Hanamaki was not so lucky when he let slip something like “it’s worse when I’m around him too long,” and, if only to dig his grave deeper, adding “that’s part of the reason I couldn’t play volleyball anymore.”

The tension in the living room increases tenfold as Matsukawa mulls over this new piece of information, and Hanamaki inwardly kicks himself over and over and over again, he kicks himself so many times that, by the time Matsukawa opens his mouth to ask the inexorable question, Hanamaki knows if he were _legitimately_ being kicked, he’d probably be dead. He wishes he were dead when said inexorable question is released into the air.

“Who is it?”

Though he’d been preparing for this moment for the past two and a half years, the question still draws the air from Hanamaki’s ruptured lungs, and his mouth is presently as dry as Iwaizumi’s texting. Hanamaki has already given too much away, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before he sees the realization dawn on Matsukawa. Hanamaki had always gone out of his way to make sure it didn’t end up like this. Hanamaki already hurts day in and day out because his best friend will only ever be that, and he doesn’t need to be _told_ this by the very person his heart aches for. 

But that look of realization never dawns on Matsukawa, not that this settles Hanamaki’s nerves in the slightest. Matsukawa simply looks at his friend with pleading eyes and the need for knowledge. 

“Why does it matter?” Hanamaki’s voice betrays his tiredness. It betrays his exhaustion from carrying not only the astilbe plant in his lungs, but from carrying this secret around for so long. It betrays the way he wishes it would all end, and yet it betrays the love he has for this person who was slowly killing him from the inside out. His voice is tired, strained, and utterly bewitching as his fondness for the person sitting across from him envelops him fully.

“Because,” Matsukawa seems to struggle with finding the right words, unable to express his frustration - at this secret person for simply existing, at Hanamaki for neglecting to key him in on this utterly vital part of his life, and at himself for not saying something sooner - all in an eloquent set of words. “Whoever it is,” he finally decides to simply use the easiest words he can find, “is an absolute idiot.” 

And Hanamaki smiles despite himself. Because the words his friend chose were frustratingly, charmingly, unequivocally Matsukawa. Hanamaki smiles despite himself. Despite the irony of the ordeal. Despite the knowledge that letting himself bask in this moment will only cause the searing in his throat to debilitate him once more. Except Hanamaki is also smiling because he doesn’t feel the all too familiar tickle in the back of his throat, though the dangerous thought lingers that this is nothing to really smile about at all.

__

That dangerous thought bites Hanamaki in the ass almost exactly two weeks after that incapacitating awkwardness, when he woke up at exactly 2:36 am, after an explicit yet beautiful masterpiece of a dream, hurling plume after plume of blush-turned-rosewood-pink astilbe. Hanamaki had no time to turn on a light, no time to run to a trash can - much less the bathroom - and absolutely no time to wake Oikawa up (not that Hanamaki would, being the kind and gallant gentleman he is, even as he’s hunched over bloodying his only set of bedsheets). That final factor, however, Hanamaki swiftly finds out is not a problem, because while he’s focused on the foliage painfully spilling out of him, three other people are roused from sleep.

These three people silently follow the tumult of retching to Hanamaki’s room, and they file in with the same silence. If not for the circumstances, the image of the three could be delightfully amusing - three guys that happen to live together lined up in a shadow stricken doorway, by height, the amount of evident uneasiness increasing with the centimeters.

But it isn’t delightfully amusing. There’s nothing delightful about waking up to your roommate puking entire plumes of bloody astilbe at precisely 2:36 in the morning. There’s nothing amusing about knowing that today marks the three years since Hanamaki had contracted the Hanahaki disease, nor is there anything delightfully amusing about the realization these circumstances brings about on all four people in the room. 

__

When Hanamaki next awakens, it isn’t in his bedroom, nor is he alone. Hanamaki’s eyes widen as the cacophony of beeps and bustling nurses reaches his ears and dread hits him like a train. Those same wide eyes dart around the room and register two familiar faces before disappointment settles in the pit of Hanamaki’s stomach like a brick. Eventually accepting that the only person he really wanted to see would not suddenly appear out of thin air, Hanamaki attempts ( _attempts_ ) a resigned sigh, only to realise he could barely inhale on his own. Hanamaki knows now that he should be dead. Hanamaki knows he has let it go too far, and Hanamaki knows there are only two options.

Though it causes him an immense deal of pain, Hanamaki poses a familiar question, that makes both Oikawa and Iwaizumi start (clearly not having registered their friend’s awakeness), “How many?” 

Hanamaki resists every urge of his muscles to cringe at the weakness of his voice, and he is thankful when Oikawa answers without the need for clarification. “It doesn’t fucking matter, Hanamaki.” Hanamaki does not miss the way Iwaizumi flinches as his boyfriend says Hanamaki’s entire surname. “It is your decision, and while I admit it’s one you need to make quickly, you will not let it be finalized by anyone but yourself.”

Hanamaki considers this for what feels like hours, but is only twenty-seven minutes, to be exact. Hanamaki considers who he’d be without his love for Matsukawa. Hanamaki considers if losing this pain in his lungs is worth forgetting the way he feels. He wonders if finally being rid of the plant is worth being rid of the warmth he feels wherever Matsukawa’s calloused hands brush him, of the hammering in his chest when his joke makes Matsukawa’s smirk spread into a breathtaking grin. Hanamaki has considered all of this before, this is nothing new, and neither is his answer.

Right when Hanamaki wants to voice this answer, Iwaizumi’s gruff whisper shocks the two other pensive boys in the cramped hospital room. Right when Iwaizumi starts to speak, Hanamaki realizes there are three visitors' chairs instead of the usual two, all of them look used. 

“Whatever your decision,” Iwaizumi begins slowly, composure and voice unwavering even as Oikawa sits in the chair next to him and puts his hands on Iwaizumi’s shoulders delicately, “he has a right to know before…” His voice trails off… ‘ _before you forget you ever loved him in the first place_ ’ he might have said, or, more realistically, ‘ _before you die._ ’

Because that’s what’s going to happen. They might as well get used to that fact. Hanamaki doesn’t have to say it, because all three of them know that it was never really a choice in the first place. Hanamaki Takahiro is going to die. He is going to die because, three years ago, Hanamaki fell in love with his best friend, and contracted the Hanahaki disease (is now a good time to laugh at the irony?). Hanamaki Takahiro is going to die because he fell in love with his best friend, contracted the Hanahaki disease, and allowed an astilbe plant to sprout in his lungs. He is going to die because the astilbe means “I will always be waiting for you” and Hanamaki had never broken a promise, not once in his life, so who is he to start now?

In this life, and in the next, Hanamaki Takahiro will wait for Matsukawa Issei, no matter how much it hurts him.

Because Hanamaki Takahiro, Oikawa Tōru, and Iwaizumi Hajime all know that Hanamaki will die, the hospital room is thick with tension, and with tears that don’t dare shed until the deed has thoroughly been done. Because the hospital room is thick with tension, it is almost ( _almost_ ) a relief when the stark white door opens and closes with identical clicks, alerting the trio of someone new in the room. It is a relief until that someone new turns out to be Matsukawa Issei, who stands, shifting his weight from one foot to the other so often it’s unnerving, fidgeting in the doorway. Hanamaki’s heart flutters despite itself, but that all too familiar tickle is once again dormant, yet whatever hope this gives Hanamaki patters by completely unnoticed.

Hanamaki frowns, though his heart still beats happily in his chest at his friend’s arrival. Hanamaki frowns because Matsukawa’s head dips down so far, what little exists of his black curls hangs in front of his face, and Hanamaki cannot see his eyes. Hanamaki wants to look into Matsukawa’s eyes so bad, because who knows when it will be his last chance. 

Though it’s labored, Hanamaki’s voice flutters into the air, “Issei.” He had never called Matsukawa by his given name before, but he does it less because it takes less breath to say than Matsukawa, and more because it simply feels right. 

Matsukawa’s head snaps up so fast it’s almost as if a crack should accompany it, and his eyes find Hanamaki’s easily, allowing the latter to admire his best friend just as he had every day for three years. 

Hanamaki notices everything about Matsukawa, from the way he clearly hasn’t eaten in probably two weeks (that amount of time seems significant, but Hanamaki’s memory seems to fail him a lot lately), to the way the “whites” of his eyes are more red than anything else. Hanamaki notices how much smaller Matsukawa seems… how _little_ space his presence takes up. This is not the Matsukawa he loves, and it’s Hanamaki’s fault.

“Don’t cry for me, Issei.” Each word is delivered slowly, and if it were anyone else in any other condition, you could say it’s because the speaker was attempting to be concise and eloquent. That is not the case.

Hanamaki feels Iwaizumi’s stare on him. Hanamaki knows he has to say it now, before his voice and breath are equally too far gone. Oikawa’s stare is fixed on the uniformly tiled floor, still trembling with the aforementioned unshed tears. 

The room is silent for far too long. Every few, fleeting moments, Matsukawa shuffles from the doorway closer to Hanamaki’s side, going unnoticed by everyone but the dying boy himself. Though his memory is fleeting, Hanamaki seems to notice everything. As Matsukawa shuffles closer, Oikawa’s trembles get much more pronounced, Iwaizumi’s stare gets softer, and Hanamaki’s breath gets shorter. Even with the tubes stuck up his nose, Hanamaki can no longer fill his lungs with enough air to feel truly alive, as the space the air should fill is instead full of plume upon plume of astilbe.

“I will be waiting for you.” Matsukawa’s voice is hardly above a whisper, but he’s finally found his voice in the absence of their other two friends, who had to step out into the hallway on account of Oikawa’s trembles becoming sobs.

Hanamaki tilts his head and stares at his friend incredulously. It is all he can do, if he still wants his final words to be good ones.

“It’s what the astilbe means, isn’t it? I remember you saying something like that,” Matsukawa pauses to gage Hanamaki’s reaction, which, in this case, is a solemn nod followed by the decision to scoot over and give Matsukawa enough room to lay down next to him, an opportunity the boy takes very quickly “This guy must really be something.” Matsukawa decides once he’s settled in next to his friend. 

The beeps that mimic the beating of Hanamaki’s heart pick up their pace ever so slightly, and Matsukawa feels as if those rapid beeps are mimicking his own heart. When did being this close to Hanamaki make his heart race? Why does this revelation have to come to Matsukawa when the other is moments from dying? Why does that information make Matsukawa seethe as he’s never seethed before?

At Matsukawa’s words, which are hilarious in the most crude and rudimentary way, Hanamaki barks out a hooting, painful laugh despite himself (he seems to do a lot of things despite himself when it comes to Matsukawa). His lungs ache and his chest seized and clenched as Hanamaki fought for those breaths he’d lost, and it takes several excruciating moments to get them back. When he does, however, Hanamaki shakes his head slowly and allows himself to steal another glance of the guy in his hospital bed. Hanamaki realizes, at one point, that his hand had found its way into Matsukawa’s, and he feels a pressure in his chest once again, though this one is not so much from his lack of breath. 

“I don’t want to leave you, Issei.” The words come out much clearer than either of the boys seem to expect, even with a few words getting caught in Hanamaki’s throat. Hanamaki’s cheeks are wet now, though he can’t remember when he started crying. 

Hanamaki cries handsomely.

Matsukawa says nothing. He simply holds onto Hanamaki’s hand as if, somehow, he can transfer some of his life into Hanamaki as long as he squeezes hard enough. “When you’re…” Matsukawa chokes on the word _gone_ , as if the word has a vulgar taste, “will you wait for me, instead of him?”

Hanamaki stares at Matsukawa incredulously… could it really be?

With as much fortitude and breath he has left, Hanamaki shifts so he's laying on his side, and Matsukawa does the same. Hanamaki almost forgets his plan for the ultimate final words as he once again gets caught in the storm conjured beneath Matsukawa’s heavy lids, betraying everything Hanamaki needs to hear out loud. 

Though it feels cold without Matsukawa’s palm pressed against it, Hanamaki’s hand moves to Matsukawa’s cheek, thumb absently running back and forth across the latter’s cheekbone. Hanamaki’s voice is stronger still as fresh tears roll down his own cheeks, and he pays no mind as the sheets beneath them dampen. Hanamaki’s voice is stronger still as he repeats Matsukawa’s words back to him, hand still planted on his cheek, “I’ve always waited for you, Issei. And I’ll always be waiting for you, as long as you kiss me goodbye.”

There’s no reluctance from either of them as Matsukawa’s lips meet Hanamaki’s halfway. It was always supposed to be this way. But just like every moment together, this one is fleeting. The pressure in Hanamaki’s chest returns. Matsukawa has not said the words, and therefore Hanamaki will still die. He thanks his body for holding out on him, so he can at least have this. He can have these final moments in Matsukawa’s arms as his heartbeats come fewer and farther between. He can tell himself he made the right choice, that the waiting was worth it.

Hanamaki is dying. He is dying in Matsukawa’s strong, shuddering arms, and he swears as he breathes his final, abbreviated breath, Matsukawa says something in his ear. Hanamaki tries his hardest to focus on the words he hears, but whatever comes after “Please, don’t leave me, not after this, I-” does not reach Hanamaki’s brain. Well, scratch that… Hanamaki does hear a scream.

***

When Hanamaki next awakens, it isn’t in his bedroom, nor is he alone. Hanamaki is in the same hospital bed in the same hospital room with the same hospital sounds. Nothing is different from when he last fell asleep, it seems.

Except, wait, wasn’t he dying? Hanamaki was definitely dying. So he’s a little confused when he notices that he’s in the same hospital bed in the same hospital room with the same hospitaal sounds, where nothing, it seems, is different from when he _died_. Because Hanamaki is sure he died. 

Nothing, it seems, is different. It wouldn’t be from an onlooker, at least. But there is one difference that quickly reveals itself to Hanamaki, and it is that his chest is lighter. There are still tubes protruding from Hanamaki wherever he looks, but his breath comes easier. 

Hanamaki’s breath comes easier than it has in the past three years. Hanamaki fears for one everlasting second that, somehow, he _had_ gotten the surgery, and that his suffering and confession had been for naught. This everlasting second ends, however, when Hanamaki finally registers the body pressed up against his, and the long, lean arm resting gingerly across his abdomen as the figure passes slowly and elegantly into an even deeper sleep with each even breath, and Hanamaki swears _his_ newfound breath catches in his throat.

His throat. Which is being tickled once more. It's a different tickle, much to Hanamaki’s benevolent wonder (can the tickle in the back of your throat really change?), and Hanamaki’s body lurches forward in an involuntary cough. This cough isn’t painful, or, at least, the pain pales in comparison to what the past two years had encompassed. No, this cough doesn’t hurt near as much as it should have, considering the foliage that Hanamaki had expelled with it. 

‘ _This isn’t astilbe_ ’ is the first thought that flitted through Hanamaki’s mind, though it was quickly followed by a charge of others. Hanamaki sits there for several minutes staring ceaselessly at the bubblegum-pink-and-yellow petal in his hand. It was crisp and clean, no trace of blood and no trace of death, as if it had been plucked from the flower itself and gingerly placed in Hanamaki’s quivering hands. Hanamaki is so lost in thought that he doesn’t hear the identical clicks of an opening and closing door. 

“Ambrosia.” A steady, calculating voice that Hanamaki doesn’t recognize fills the room, but the other boy on the bed is not roused, so Hanamaki gives the stranger his undivided attention.

“What?” Hanamaki’s voice has its full strength back and it fills the room just as proudly as the stranger’s.

“Ambrosia,” the stranger is tall, probably taller than Matsukawa by no more than three centimeters, and his honey-colored eyes are somewhat mellowed by his thickly-framed glasses. “Representative of a love returned wholly. A single petal, somewhat of farewell from the disease itself.”

Not knowing whether to snort or gasp at this, Hanamaki ends up choking on his own saliva before laughter bubbles over, effectively breaking Hanamaki into a fit of giggles. And his chest feels so light and his heart feels so full because ambrosia is representative of love returned, because Matsukawa Issei loves Hanamaki Takahiro back, because he is alive, and because he can finally laugh like this for the first time in three years. 

When Hanamaki finally regains his bearings, he looks up to the tall stranger to find him smiling to himself, and some things click into place. 

“You’re…” Hanamaki trails off, and it’s suddenly awkward that he knows this boy’s story without even properly knowing his name.

“Tsukishima.” The stranger, Tsukishima apparently, nods his head in a slight bow before speaking up again, “We’ve been on opposite sides of the same net… what three times now?”

Hanamaki smiles fondly at the half memory before correcting Tsukishima, “Twice actually, had to quit in the middle of the year.” 

Tsukishima nods like he understands, which he probably does. This brings Hanamaki back to his original train of thought, and he presses on fixedly, “that ‘somebody else on the Karasuno team who had it’” Hanamaki trails off once more after quoting Oikawa’s words, words that had been his first glimpse of hope in the longest time, and Hanamaki swears he sees Tsukishima’s eyes widen and the corners of his mouth quirk up, “that was you, wasn’t it?”

Tsukishima is full on grinning like an absolute idiot now, and he refuses to look into Hanamaki’s eyes as he nods. Hanamaki knows he’s not grinning at the memories of flower puking and crippling chest pain, but at the thought of that person who loves him back. That person he _knows_ loves him back.

Once he recovers, Tsukishima explains his sudden appearance, “Oikawa called me this morning. Told me everything… well, everything important.” Tsukishima adds upon seeing the look of horror spreading across Hanamaki’s face. “You died, Hanamaki.” Tsukishima looks expectantly at Hanamaki, face devoid of emotion as he awaits Hanamaki’s reaction to the news.

Hanamaki simply nods, and as he listens to Tsukishima talk, his hand subconsciously finds its way resting atop the head of a sleeping Matsukawa. Hanamaki’s fingers absentmindedly lace through curly wisps of dark brown hair, and while Tsukishima continues to tell Hanamaki about his phone call with a confused and tired Oikawa (which went a little something like “So, he’s dead but he’s not dead, they said.” “It can’t be both, Oikawa-san.” “Well, I don’t really know, that fucker confessed but it was right when Makki died so…”), Hanamaki’s fingers continue to travel through Matsukawa’s hair as if they’d done it a million times. 

When Tsukishima leaves, drained of all his Hanahaki knowledge, the room falls silent. It is a calm silence weaved with the intermittent beeping of Hanamaki’s heart monitor and the steady breaths of Matsukawa.

Though the silence is nice, Hanamaki is full of life and buzzing with excitement, and it doesn’t take long for this energy to fill the room. As if being able to sense Hanamaki’s newfangled spark of life, Matsukawa is drawn from sleep effortlessly, and it takes several minutes for the both of them to settle into sudden realizations.

For Hanamaki, it’s that this person really, truly loves him. It’s that all his waiting paid off, and that he can live a life with both his love for Matsukawa and the boy himself.

For Matsukawa, it’s that this person is really, truly alive. It’s that his belated confession paid off, and that he doesn’t have to think for one more excruciating second that he has to live a life without Hanamaki.

“Issei.” Hanamaki is the good kind of breathless now, staring at Matsukawa with the same fondness he always had, and with the same fondness he always will have.

“Takahiro.” Matsukawa is also breathless (still the good kind), as he notices Hanamaki in all the ways he should have before, and in all the ways he will be sure to notice from now until forever. “I am so sorry I was so stupid. Not only for not realizing I was putting you through this, but for taking so long to figure things out for myself. I don’t know how you could really love me, not when I’m this big, clueless idiot. I will never forgive myself, Hiro, I don’t expect you too, anyway…”

Hanamaki smiles (despite himself) at how quickly Issei had adopted the nickname for him, and his grin only gets wider with each flustered word that spills from Issei’s lips. 

Hanamaki kisses those lips, effectively putting a stop to Matsukawa’s rambling, and their faces stay enchantingly close, breaths mingling and becoming one, while Hanamaki whispers “I will forgive you under one condition, Issei.” 

Matsukawa can say nothing, his heart is beating too loudly in his chest to hear his own thoughts; he doesn’t trust his burning lips; he only nods carefully, not once moving his face away from Hanamaki’s.

“Promise me,” Hanamaki continues, “that you’ll always be waiting for me?” 

Matsukawa nods the same as the last time, if only more fervently than before. Matsukawa feels Hanamaki’s grin against his own as he’s pulled forward once more, into Hanamaki’s open arms and waiting lips.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading and sticking with this story! I have never really finished a story/fic/whatever that I was truly passionate about, and to finally do that... well... the feeling is beyond words. That inexplicable feeling is amplified tenfold by the fact that I get to share this completed piece with people who understand the source material(s) and who are so widely accepting of ideas and styles. So, in short, thank you for letting me share this with you! I greatly appreciate kudos and comments, because who doesn't? They do, indeed, make me feel seen, and alert me to what I can improve upon!  
> I believe that's all for now, so, until the next time I post a fic and dip at an ungodly hour in the morning,  
> Edit:  
> If you want to yell at me about these funky gay volleyball players, or more abstract things (such as the connection between tolerance and physical/geographical location _and _how it translates into everything we create), feel free to stalk my[Twitter](https://twitter.com/okay_then_buddy)__
> 
> __:D_ _
> 
> _  
> _-G.L__  
> 


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